Adventure Magazine Cover — page 61: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Wolf-Chaser “A sorry bed, Pierre,” he observed in French, “‘and a poor drink to speed you on your way. Now a goblet of good Bur- gundy ” “Ah, monsieur le comte, no.” Pierre lifted his thin head wistfully. “Tf there were but a priest in this wilder- ness! Or—or a holy spot where the sign of the cross is to be seen.” Hugo Arnauld, Count of Hainault, cas- tellan of Grav, once captain of musketeers at the court of Paris, then colonel in the border armies of the King of France—the man who now called himself Hugo—tugged at the small tuft of his beard and raised one shaggy eyebrow without answering. Having no good to say of priests or the houses of priests, he held his peace before the dying man. Seldom indeed had he failed to speak boldly to priest or minister, wherefore was he now an exile from France, publicly proclaimed an intriguer. It did not make much difference to Hugo. [t rather amused him that the worthy ministers should now be hoarding the revenues from Hainault which he had squandered so royally when he was young. Doubtless, he reflected, the very intelligent courtezans who were great ladies were drawing their tithes from the ministers. “Ah, monsteur,”’ breathed Pierre again, his thought returning with the habit of a lifetime to his master, “there will now be no one to—to brush your cloaks, to set out your linen and clean your swords.” Hugo laughed. Facing the gleam of sun- light in the door, now that his hunting-cap was off, gray was to be seen in his black hair. His dark countenance, on which the skin stretched taut over the bones, bore the stamp of pride; his wide mouth under the trim mustache was hard, his long chin stubborn. Women in other days had looked twice at the man who was Count of Hai- nault. “One forgets, my Pierre,’ he remarked eruffly, “that here there exists no need to wear fresh linen or draped cloak over a scabbard. Judging by the manners of the habitants, we have arrived at Jast in the land of Gog and Magog, so inscribed in the charts of the geographers. My faith, the end of the world—Tartaria. I have made good my promise.” Pierre coughed and lay back weakly. Monsieur le comte had always been such a stickler for the niceties of dress. Even now, 59 with the habit of a soldier, his coat and shirt were clean. The promises of mon- sieur le comte were always kept. IT HAD been at Zbaraj. They had wandered, exiled, from France to the court of the Common- wealth of Poland. Here honest Pierre had taken heart again, seeing cathedrals and the retinue of great nobles. But his master had declared that the nobles reeked of fish, and the mead soiled his mouth after the red wine of Burgundy. So, hearing that the Cossacks and Crimea Tatars were making war on Prince Yeremi, the champion of the Commonwealth, on the southern marches of Poland, they had en- listed under the banner of the prince, had marched for years through blazing forests and over the steppe that was like a sea of grass. When Zbaraj, the stronghold of the Poles, had been besieged, Hainault, as castellan, had been called the lion of Zbaraj. Pierre remembered that one night when they had been eating horseflesh, the a SIBERIA GoGt DESERT ®- CHINESE GQAAKOO PEKIN « TIEN TSIN® 2 . Be 2”. : / LAD WOETOK < © Sucrow REPUBLIC < Wy \S) ° u N q s 6) a 4 INDO-CHINA warrior-priest, Yaskolski, had made the round of the walls in the procession of the holy sacrament. Candles borne before the tall figure of the priest had shone upon gilded monstrance and swinging censers, even while cannon- balls plunged through the air overhead. Pierre had fallen to his knees as the pro- cession passed, and bared his head. Hugo, the doubter, rose from his seat in a trench, COmiclboooks (C@